


Rotation

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Impala, Team Free Will, season 5, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:06:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is tired of always driving shotgun, so he Takes Steps.  Dean is Not Amused.  And then it's not really about the car at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rotation

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at an undetermined point during Season 5. I was feeling awful this past week, so I wrote some silliness to cheer myself up. It’s based off a conversation a friend and I had concerning the Impala. XD

The first step was getting on Dean’s good side. That meant procuring bacon cheeseburgers, beer, and cherry pie. The second step was to _stay_ on his good side. This meant no griping, eye-rolling, or ribbing when Dean went out drinking and stumbled back at four a.m., disheveled and smelling like tequila and Chanel.

He sleeps until noon, stirring only when Cas flutters in and says sternly, “I am not your personal courier.”

“Shh,” Sam shushes, waving a hand. “What’s the big deal? You were already there.” He plucks the coffee and pastries out of the angel’s hands and lays breakfast out on the motel room table. “So God’s not in Paris, huh?” Cas shakes his head, discontent. “I’m sorry. Maybe this will cheer you up.” He taps the rolled-up sheet by the coffees.

“I doubt it,” the angel replies.

“What smells so good?” Dean mumbles into the sheets, making Sam start. His brother is lying on his front, T-shirt rucked up and boxers bunched high on one leg.

“Cas brought breakfast from France,” Sam says. “Hungry?”

Dean rolls over and sits up, putting himself in some semblance of order, and stares at the spread on the table. “What’s the occasion?”

“Sam asked,” Cas replies, matter-of-factly.

“I just thought you’d like it,” Sam adds.

Dean narrows his eyes at them. “Okay, what are you up to?” he asks, suspicious.

“What do you mean?” Sam feigns innocence.

“I’m not up to anything,” Cas denies. He’s not as good at feigning innocence, instead sounding like he rehearsed this with Sam.

Dean’s suspicion only grows, naturally. “What are you fattening me up for?” he wants to know, not moving an inch from the bed, no matter how good the food smells — and Sam can say with certainty that the food smells delicious.

“No one’s fattening anyone up,” Sam assures him.

“You’re not fat,” Cas points out, a bemused look settling on his face as he tilts his head for a better look.

His brother ignores the angel. “Sam,” he intones, warningly.

Sam supposes it was a long shot. It’s a little early to be rocking the Good Side boat, but he’s been caught; better to come clean now than test Dean’s patience. “Well, I was thinking…” he glances at the rolled up poster.

Dean notices it now. “What is that?”

“I’m tired of riding shotgun,” Sam confesses, spreading his hands in surrender. “I want to drive the Impala more often.”

Dean blinks at him. “What?”

“You _barely_ let me behind the wheel — usually when you’re too wasted or indisposed. I’m just,” Sam wrinkles his nose, “bored being a passenger all the time.”

“You’re not bored,” Dean corrects him. “You’re researching.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees dully. “Researching. Look, just hear me out, okay?”

“I’m going to go ahead and just veto this entire proposition.” Dean folds his arms, resolute. “It’s my car.”

Sam waves his arms in a manner he will deny having done when this is over. “But I’ve lived in it for five years now! That sort of makes it mine, too.”

“Bite your tongue,” Dean snaps.

Cas, who has been watching the exchange with interest, decides to pick at the food he’d brought. He makes a face at the black coffee, but seems to enjoy one of the little pastries. It disappears quickly enough. Then the angel reaches for another one.

“And now Cas is eating the bargaining chips,” Sam huffs.

“If you want to drive the Impala,” Dean says, “you are going to have to do much better than breakfast from those cheese-eating surrender monkeys.”

“I made a chart!” Sam proclaims proudly, grabbing the rolled poster and holding it high.

“A chart,” his brother deadpans.

“Check it out,” Sam continues, ignoring Dean’s lack of enthusiasm. He spreads the poster onto the table, rearranging breakfast to help pin the corners down.

“Did you go to Kinko’s for this?” Dean finally gets up, wandering over to stare incredulously at Sam’s handiwork. “You actually went to Kinko’s for this?”

“It’s pretty amazing,” Sam allows.

“Not the word I’d use.”

“And their turnaround time is great. Anyway, listen, I’ve got it all figured out.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “This should be good. Did he put you up to this?” he asks Cas.

But Cas has a mouthful of macaroons, looking a little guilty at being caught stuffing his face. After a beat, he shrugs one shoulder, as he’s seen Dean do so many times.

Sam nudges Dean’s shoulder to get his attention. “So here: Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday: I get to drive the car.”

“No,” Dean shoots him down.

But Sam plows on. “Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday: _you_ get to drive the car.”

“Sam.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “What is this really about?”

This brings him up short, and Sam hesitates, gaze flickering from the chart to his brother to the angel sampling French cuisine. Dean’s not stupid, Sam knows this, but he’d hoped his motives were a little more obtuse. “I just think everyone on Team Free Will should get to drive the car.”

Dean gives him a long look. “Or do you mean everyone on Team Free Will _should_ be able to drive the car?”

“Yes,” Sam agrees, turning the words back around. “Yes, we should. Which is why we should start using this scheduled rotation.”

“Sammy, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Well,” Sam is waving his hands again, except that he’s totally not, “I don’t know what you thought you meant, but I’m really just tired of not being able to _drive_.”

And Dean must be hungover or still blissed-out from last night, because his expression softens into a mix of sympathy and understanding. “I know, Sammy,” he says, like he _gets it_. “I am, too.”

Sam lowers his gaze, toeing the green shag carpet. From his peripheral vision, he can see that one corner of the poster is curling up — because the bag of pastries keeping it down is gone.

“But that’s why we gotta keep fighting,” Dean goes on, voice gaining strength and momentum and goddamn it, his brother really knows how to give a rousing call-to-arms. “Because if those bastards — both upstairs and down — think they can just waltz in here and tell us what we can and can’t do, then they’ve got another thing coming.” He starts gesturing for emphasis. “The more they try to steer us where _they_ want us to go, the more tightly we grip the wheel and fucking go where _we_ want. And damn it, sometimes we make mistakes — and sometimes we fuck shit up. But those are _our_ choices and _we_ deal with the consequences. No matter what anyone else says, we get to make our own decisions. So fuck Lucifer, fuck Michael, and fuck the whole fucking Apocalypse!” Dean exhales sharply, having been on a roll, and shakes his head. “And _anyone_ can make that choice, no matter what Heaven or Hell says about their fucking destinies. That’s the beauty of this free will thing. Right, Cas?”

Cas looks up from scrutinizing the empty bag. “I have made regrettable choices,” he admits, peering back into the bag as though expecting more baked goods to appear. It’s hard to take his words seriously, though, considering his mouth is smeared with pastry flakes and chocolate.

Sam is chewing his lip, staring at his brother so intently that Dean eventually starts to look uncomfortable. “Thanks,” he says, finally. He hadn’t really known he needed a pep talk. He’s surprised Dean knew. But then, Dean is more emotionally intuitive than he likes to let on.

The moment’s past, though. Dean rubs at the back of his neck and averts his gaze, walls coming back up. Chick flick quota for the month, Sam figures. “So,” Dean ventures, glancing back at the poster, “who gets Fridays?”

“Cas.”

The shellshocked look on Dean’s face is priceless. “ _Hell,_ no.”

“Why not?” Sam teases.

“Do I even have to _explain?_ ”

“I will need to learn how to drive eventually,” Cas pipes up, actually sounding kind of bummed about it.

“Well, I am not teaching you in my baby,” Dean shoots back. “We’ll go to Bobby’s and find something awful-looking for you to ding.”

“I’d still like to drive more often,” Sam says, forestalling further discussion about Cas’s motorist skills. “I wasn’t making that up.”

Dean considers this for a few moments, and then gives Sam the barest hint of a nod. Sam lets it stand, figuring that’s the best he’ll get.

When his brother is showered and dressed, Sam and Cas are waiting for him by the door. “We going for some real breakfast?” Dean queries.

“That was real breakfast,” Sam argues.

“It was before Cas ate it all.”

The angel has the grace to look chagrined, but he doesn’t apologize.

Dean hesitates, then dangles the keys in front of Sam. “You want to drive?”

Sam feels his lips curl into a smile. “Thanks, Dean. It’s Friday, though, so technically it’s Cas’s—”

“Don’t push your luck,” Dean warns.

The smile becomes a grin, and Sam grabs the keys.

 

~End.


End file.
